by O. J. Lowe
“And you already gave him a cute nickname?”
“Well he left an impression. You probably knew his father better than I did.”
“You could say that.” She didn’t have anything more to say on it. Not anything that she wanted to. Although the memories hadn’t involved her personally, it didn’t make them any less painful. Sometimes stuff was just tragic and there was no getting away from that. He wasn’t going to let it go though.
“I mean I remember he had that spell in the Serran Knights, he was strong. The videos are still there in the system.”
“Doesn’t matter how strong you are, there’s still the chance that you can crack. If you can crack…”
“You can break,” Nick finished. “And if you break, you can’t always be put back together again.”
The tale of Luke Maddley had been one used as a cautionary for aspiring spirit callers over many years. The story of how such a steep rise can lead to a fall so great. What goes up will inevitably come down. The faster the rise, the faster the fall. He’d risen in Serran, he’d gotten his caller at the age of fifteen, having read everything he could on the subject as a theory, gathered every shred of knowledge he could accumulate and sought to use it. He’d studied the mechanics, he’d analysed the best way to tailor each spirit to its maximum based on the efforts of previous accounts read. Because he’d believed knowledge was power.
The story went that as soon as he got out into the real world, he fell flat on his face. His approach, fine in theory, either hadn’t worked or had needed tuning but something hadn’t been right with it. Maybe he’d been too caught up on the theories and the strategy to be able to focus on what was happening on the battlefield, more likely he was suffering from that lack of practice that all fresh callers found themselves afflicted with. Either way, the young Maddley had found himself struggling to score victories not just in tournaments but in friendly practice bouts on the road. Whatever he was going through with his spirits, whatever his strategies were, however he was building himself for the future, it just wasn’t happening. All of that was a matter of public record, according to his posthumously produced biography and tournament records from that time.
The actual truth behind what happened next had long been disputed and debated but what wasn’t debateable was that he’d gotten that first win. He hadn’t just defeated the favourite in the tournament he’d entered, a local challenge in Peruz, he’d absolutely destroyed him. The crowd had been silenced, shocked that this stranger who hadn’t made it past the early rounds in any of his previous tournaments had suddenly stormed it. And although it might have only been the start, Luke Maddley had no intention of it being a fluke, a one off. Suddenly he was flush with success.
He’d rose and rose like a phoenix in the peak of life, seemingly unbeatable to all but the very best and even then, the victories were often never clear cut against him. He’d gone from a nobody to a major player in a matter of months, everything had gone spectacularly for him. He’d married a former Ms Premesoir and fathered a child with her, the young Darren. He’d amassed a fortune, become a champion and a pundit, he’d even set up several academies to see that underprivileged callers could get the best advice and help available to start them on their journey without being beholden to sponsors. In just a few short years, he’d reached the top and he looked like he’d enjoyed every minute of it.
And so, he’d stayed there until that fateful day when Sharon Arventino had entered his life in a fight to decide the grand champion of Serran. Maddley had been the holder, Sharon had been the challenger, not quite a novice but neither the grand champion she would go on to become in years later. Nobody who had been in the stadium that night would ever forget what had happened, many who hadn’t been there made a habit of viewing the match footage at least once every few months. Some enjoyed seeing the spectacle of it for amusement. Others just used it as a reminder of how quickly things could change.
Maddley had gone out, done exactly as he had done in many of his previous bouts, same tactics that had served him so well over the past decade…
And he’d bombed spectacularly. Sharon had outmanoeuvred him at every turn, she hadn’t just beaten him, she’d annihilated him in crushing fashion. Maddley had been so shocked he hadn’t been able to speak in full coherent sentences when talking to the press afterwards. Still, he’d had ten years of prime experience behind him and everyone had conceded that nobody was perfect for ever. He’d get over it, put it behind him and move on.
Except he hadn’t. In his next bout, he’d been smashed again. And again. And again. Many experts had theorised as to why this had been the case. Some had stated their opinion that he’d gone stale and everyone had figured him out, he was too set in his ways to change, to adapt. Others said his nerve had gone with that beating Sharon had handed out, his confidence shattered beyond repair. A third train of opinion had said that surely, he’d get it right again sooner or later and once again the five kingdoms would see the manic genius of Luke Maddley.
In the end, nobody had been proven right. With depression overtaking him at his sudden failures, divorce looming on the horizon over the failure of his marriage, the failure of his school and the shrinking of the fortune he’d accumulated, Maddley had taken the easy way out. They’d found him in his office at the school, a blaster in his mouth and a new coat of paint needed for the ceiling.
And now, Nick noted, it would appear history was giving a second chance to someone by the name of Maddley to defeat Sharon Arventino. Privately, he was interested in this far more than he was in his own bout, as strange as it sounded. Very interested indeed.
She’d returned to the office when the special caller rang, the one she kept in her desk solely for communication with her contact. If it should fall out of her hands, she dreaded to think what might happen. It had been supplied by her own personal agent inside Unisco, to lose it would be a major step back for them all. And that would be the best-case scenario. The worst, she didn’t want to think about. It was a simple device, hard to track and even harder to monitor despite the common branding and make. You could walk into any market or store across the five kingdoms and buy any such device for a few credits.
Somehow, she suspected that there was more to it than met the eye. She didn’t even know if it could function as an actual spirit projector, despite the space for a capture crystal. A useful tool. She suspected that it would be able to project. Being caught with such an item, not that it worried her, would be infinitely more suspicious than one that couldn’t.
She ran her thumb over the activation pad and placed it on the desk in front of her, it beeped momentarily and flashed into life.
“Speak to me,” she said.
“Something you might be interested in,” her contact said, the voice electronically muffled. There was no way to tell if it was even male or female let alone nail down an identity. “Harvey Rocastle was just arrested on Carcaradis Island for attempted kidnap.”
If her attention had threatened to wander before, it was sharply and painfully brought back with that. She repeated the words to herself, pondering their full meaning before letting out a series of sharp curses bringing into doubt Rocastle’s lineage, masculinity and sexual preferences.
“Yeah, I thought that might be your reaction,” the contact said without a hint of amusement in the electronic voice. “He actually tried to drag her off in the middle of a dance, if you can believe it.”
“And he got caught?” She tried to keep the disbelief out of her voice. Of course, the idiot had gotten caught. What was wrong with him?! She gripped the sides of her chair to try and keep her hands from shaking. How could Rocastle have been so stupid? “Where is he now?”
“Locked up in the cells. They’re transporting him to Vazara in the morning. By hoverjet, special prisoner transport series, some agents from the mainland are coming to get him. I’ll send you the transponder ID and specs if you need to do something about it. They know he was scouting, they don’t know wh
y but they’re sceptical about the logic behind it.”
“We can’t let Rocastle get into the system,” she said. “What sort of guard detail is he likely to have?”
“Standard. One hoverjet for transport, minimal armaments but heavy shielding, six assault HAX class ships for escort duty. Be at least four agents on the transport, not including the pilot and co-pilot.”
This time she cursed silently. If he was going to do something so idiotic, there was a more convenient time for him to do it. Just not now. A few months down the line, there’d have been a perfect solution. As far as she knew, it wasn’t complete. Not yet.
“Can you delay his transportation? Allow us the chance to get the preparations in place for his retrieval or his termination.”
“I’m not entirely sure I can. This has pissed off someone high up. Anyone else, I might be able to fudge it. I’ll see what I can do but no promises I want to keep.”
That was aggravating but she held her tongue. Her contact wasn’t a miracle worker, she knew that. Throwing a fit wouldn’t help the situation any, she needed to keep a cool head. If the worst came to the worst, Rocastle would have to die.
“Thank you,” she said. “Do everything you can. What you have given me may be enough. If you can’t do anything more, it’ll have to be.” She couldn’t keep the snippiness out of her voice, as petulant as it might have sounded. “Usual payment will be on its way to you.”
“Oh no, thank you Mistress,” the voice said, still electronically devoid of emotion. It might have sounded sarcastic in human tones. She couldn’t tell. And that annoyed her as much as anything. “I’ll be in touch if I have anything else.
The line went silent as quickly as it had burst into life and she leaned back in her chair, her attention momentarily catching on the holoimage that Sinkins had forwarded to her earlier in the day. Hovering in three dimensional images high above the projector were words she had never heard before and a meaning that still escaped her. And yet, her interest had been piqued enough to want to know more.
First came the Source, the well of everything past, present and future.
Second came the Statue, the sign of a riddle yet to be solved, a door to be opened.
Third came the Stone, the key to all you seek.
Together awaits infinity and all its treats.
Cryptic enough. Sinkins hadn’t forwarded any information as to what it meant, meaning either he wished to surprise her or, more likely, he didn’t know himself. Either way, it could wait. She sought out another number, cursed Rocastle again. Who knew what this was going to end up costing her.
“I need to talk to Phillipe Mazoud,” she said as the connection was made. “I have some more urgent work for the Vazaran Suns.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight. The Vos Lak.
“The vos lak can grow up to thirty feet long and under the right circumstances, it will. It’s a shame they’re extinct in the wild now because they’re beautiful creatures in a savagely graceful way.”
Professor David Fleck on the vos lak.
The sixth day of Summerpeak.
“Status report, Wing One?”
In the cockpit of his HAX, a stubby high-speed aircraft with twin sets of wings protruding out of its guts and six powerful thruster jets as well as enough armament to lay siege to a small city, Unisco combat pilot Commander Richard Wolfmeyer considered the voice for just a moment before diverting his attention back onto the task at hand. “Everything looks good up here, Box. Got nothing on my sensors, everything’s running fine.”
“He’s gone and jinxed it now,” Wing Three said, her voice crisp and throatily feminine. Wolfmeyer found it incredibly sexy to listen to amidst the roar of engines. Strange really given that behind her flight handle, Ellen Thwaite wasn’t really anything to write home to mother and father about. “Watch.”
“Thanks for the optimism there, Wing Three,” Wing Two said, his voice bearing a Burykian accent. Jiro Hasigawa, Wolfmeyer’s second in command, was a jolly man in life but over the comms he always sounded so serious. “How would we ever cope without your little bit of sunshine in our lives?”
“Badly, I think,” Wing Six offered. “That’s when we used to know to head to the hills. When everyone starts to think the best is going to happen, it’s when you run.” Wolfmeyer hadn’t really gotten the chance to know Beck McCaffrey too much yet, he’d only been in the unit for a few months but so far, he’d proved himself to be a good pilot. He’d replaced Alara Coselli as Wing Six when she’d been killed in action. Something Wolfmeyer still regretted.
It wasn’t your fault. Nothing you could do. Twin sets of four words he’d grown so used to hearing that they’d lost all meaning.
“Personally, I think heading for the hills is best,” Wing Four said. Alexandra Nkolou, a pretty Vazaran had been in the squad nearly the same length of time as Wolfmeyer and Hasigawa and he liked having her around. She made things interesting, she had an uncanny ability to perform manoeuvres in flight that bordered on suicidal recklessness. “Been too long since we did some good old-fashioned hill flying.”
“What is hill flying?” Wing Five sounded interested. Ross Navarro had been in the squadron only slightly longer than Six had, a pleasant mixed race Premesoiran/Serranian with an interest in mechanics, a broad accent and broader love of women. “Most I ever hear of flying over hills is when folks go crashing because they ain’t got a rats’ clue what they’re doing.”
“Hill flying, Five, you dip,” Wing Three said. “Up and down, up and down. You getting motion sick yet? You probably did it in training. If you didn’t, why the hells are you flying with us?”
“You need someone to fill that charming rogue quota, I think Three. Don’t say you don’t. I know it, you know it, hells Box knows it down there.”
“Ah this is the famous Wolf Squadron banter then,” the pilot of Box One said. The transport had been designated Box due to its design, something Hasigawa had accurately pointed out resembled an overweight boxbug, an oval shaped craft with twin wings painted a silver colour that managed to avoid reflection in the morning sun. Wolfmeyer knew that its armour and shields were top of the line, all but impenetrable when in full force. Only the nose of the craft broke up the otherwise smooth shape, a triangle point that concealed a pair of powerful laser cannons. “Not all you hear it’s cracked up to be.”
Wolf Squadron. He’d been given the authorisation to form the unit all those years ago, he’d named it for himself, a touch of ego he had to admit but it had stuck, and slowly they’d become as much a part of Unisco Air Division as he’d dared to believe. It might have surprised some to find out that the organisation had its own entourage of pilots, but at the same time, it usually dawned on them that there was no reason why they shouldn’t. After all, it was a big world and although Unisco could co-opt aid from the armed forces of individual nations, sometimes they liked to keep their activities in house. It made things simpler.
In the time that he and Jiro had been running the group, they’d gotten a reputation and although the mission might be an easy one, escort the transport of some sick scumbag from Carcaradis Island to mainland Vazara, it didn’t mean he wasn’t intending to see it went through without a minimum of fuss. They were as close to the best as they were ever going to be, he wanted to keep it up. Wolfmeyer had immense pride in his squad, flying with them was one of them best feelings he’d ever have and nothing would take that away. Even in the few events where death had taken some of those around him, the hurt had eventually faded replaced by that sense of peace in motion.
They’d met up with Box just a few miles off the island, flying for half an hour, they’d experienced smooth conditions for it so far. He’d chosen not to relax though, still on edge in his cockpit as if something might come out of nowhere at any moment. Sensors weren’t picking anything up. Neither were Box’s. If anything, their sensors would be far more sensitive than those on the Hensley Assault eXecutioner that Wolf Squad had come to favour. Yes, Wolfmeyer conceded, th
e HAX was likely the most dangerous thing in the sky. It was unlikely they’d face any sort of need to exert that dangerous side on this trip.
Unlikely but not impossible. Jacques Leclerc, a former Wolf himself and rumoured to be the pilot who’d flown the director to Carcaradis Island for the duration of the tournament, since transferred to the main investigative arm of Unisco had told Wolfmeyer in private conversation the priority regarding this prisoner. He’d attempted to kidnap a spirit dancer, tried to run off with her only to be stopped violently by Wade Wallerington from accomplishing his goals.
Wolfmeyer knew Wallerington by reputation but what a reputation. He’d liked to have stopped by the Quin-C himself but duty had prevented it. He hadn’t been one of the employees detailed to go, much to his dismay but he hadn’t let it get in the way of what he’d had to do. He’d managed to keep track of it as much as possible.
Around him, the banter continued across his wings, he didn’t discourage it as a rule although others likely would have. He’d always believed it built morale, helped his team function as a unit rather than a group of individuals and they weren’t careless enough to let it interfere with performance. His people were professional enough when it came down to it. No worries.
That was when he heard the buzz of his sensors alerting him that danger was incoming and he cursed, just for a moment and then let his professional focus overtake him as he glanced to his long ranger scanner.
“You pick up on that, Wing One?” Box asked. “Looks like thirteen… No, fourteen incoming ships. No ID’s active. Assorted makes.”
“That’s never good,” Wing Four said. “What’s the order?”
Wolfmeyer said nothing for the moment, studying his interface briefly before sighing deeply. He knew it had all been going too well. “Stay sharp. Box One, if they continue to approach, hail them and advise them to turn back. If they continue their course, warn them that their continued action will be met with reprisal.”
